All This Time(61)

“You’re yellow,” I say, still able to feel the fabric underneath my fingers. “And Laura loved…” I notice the Stargazers, planted just across the path from the Doris Days, the pink and yellow next to each other.

If Dr. Ronson were here, he’d say that this was tangible proof that I made that up too.

But I get a chill.

Because I realize what a complete idiot I’ve been. I hobble as quickly as I can over to my bed, grabbing my iPad and opening up Google. I type in “Marley + Laura + accident,” and results materialize before my eyes.



* * *




Sam finds me surrounded by sticky notes, all of them different Marleys, their geographic location in miles written next to their names.

“What’s going on here?” he asks warily, picking up two of the sticky notes and reading them. “Marla and Laurie, accident, eighty-eight miles? Marley, Laura, accident, 1,911 miles? Dude, I thought—”

I hold up another one, showing it to him. “Marley, Lara, seven miles.”

He stares at me, blinking, not understanding what I’m saying.

“This has to be her,” I say, telling him about her smell on my blanket this morning, the flowers, and the epiphany I had. I guide him through all my research, explaining to him how I’d spent the day googling combinations of the words “Marley,” “Laura,” and “car accident,” articles from all across the country suddenly at my fingertips.

After that it was all about efficiency. GPSing the city the accident happened in, giving the first paragraph a scan for names, and then on to the next one.

By the end, there was a sea of colored papers in front of me. And I’d narrowed it down to this.

A single yellow Post-it. The key I’ve been looking for.

“Seven miles away, dude. Plus, the story matches.” I swipe through to the article on my iPad, reading for him. “?‘Lara, fourteen, was killed on impact by a speeding vehicle on Glendale Street yesterday afternoon.’?” I look up at Sam and we both grimace, those horrific words feeling odd next to so much excitement.

“Sam, that’s almost exactly what happened to Marley’s sister. Seven miles away from here. It all adds up,” I say as I eagerly reach out for the Post-it. “I told you she was real. Now I just have to get over there.”

He doesn’t say anything for a whole minute; then finally he shakes his head. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?” I ask him, shaking the Post-it note in front of him. “I found her.”

“No, you haven’t,” he says, grabbing the Post-it from my hand. “Even if she were the ‘right’ Marley, she doesn’t know you. You were asleep. Forget it, man. I’m not helping you terrorize some poor girl.”

I grab it back from him. “You don’t have to do anything. You just have to drive me over there.” I’m not going to be released for another few weeks at least because Dr. Benefield is still monitoring my brain activity, and this is definitely not something that can wait. I told Marley I would never leave her and now she’s going to think I have. I can’t put her through that. Not a single day more.

“How do you even know where she lives?” he asks, incredulous.

I hold out my iPad to him, showing him the GPS directions from here to the address I found with the help of the article. There was a quote from Lara’s dad, Greg Ellis, about the accident.

While I couldn’t find anything online about a Marley Ellis, I found plenty about Greg. Including his address.

We can be there in under twenty minutes.

“Google is scary,” he says, shaking his head.

“Sam,” I say, serious. “I need to see her. See if she remembers me.”

“Remembers you? From where? All those nights she doused herself in jasmine perfume, snuck into your hospital room, and rubbed herself all over your blanket?”

I throw down one of my crutches and snatch the iPad back from him. “Screw you, then. Don’t help.”

He stalks to the door, and I know I have one last Hail Mary.

And I’m an awful person for using it, but I’m desperate.

“You owe me.”

Sam spins around, confused. “What?”

“When I said I heard you talking to me… I heard everything you said, Sam. Everything.” I watch as his face pales, his eyes widening as he realizes what I’m talking about.

“You owe me. For that missed tackle. For my shoulder. For my career—”

Sam holds up his hands, shaking his head. I’ve hit the mark. “Hold on—I’m sorry—”

“Then prove it!” I say as I raise the Post-it note. “Help me. All I’m asking is that you believe me, Sam. It’s her. I know it’s her.”

His dark eyebrows pull together as he thinks, his eyes turning to the iPad, glowing on the bed. “I know I owe you, and I’ve really tried to be the best friend I could be,” he says softly. “I wasn’t always able to do that. I shouldn’t have let you be blindsided by Kimberly’s acceptance to Berkeley. I should have told you how I felt about Kim, even if I was never going to do anything about it. I should have helped you find something outside of football and us to focus on.” He runs his fingers through his hair, swallowing. “And you’re right—I should have blocked that linebacker. I should have protected you, and I’ve been beating myself up about it ever since.”